Mary Huxley and The Truth #Unmasked @ WEP

There is no formal challenge in December, 2020. If it would have been then the theme was “unmasked”. Perhaps the irony that we could not be unmasked yet, from COVID-19 pandemic obviously, took the challenge away. 

Yet I was ready with my story. Hence, I am posting as the WEP ritual.

********************

Mary Huxley and The Truth

Mary Huxley pulled the gun from the holster. The peddler must surrender, or Huxley would pull the trigger.

Huxley has been chasing this ever since she had stepped in this area, on foot, in civil clothes, without gun, even before she received charges of the post officially. She strolled around the scene from midday to middle of the evening, until the end of the last begging shift of the day. She reversed her shirt, released her bun into a cascade of hair down to her waist, between the first two strolls, to avoid being noticed by the beggars or anyone working in the area. Before subsequent strolls, she changed her look respectively by putting on a jacket and plaiting her hair, and, by reversing the jacket and stuffing the plait into a beanie cap. She used various combinations of these style moves during her subsequent strolls.

The scene had several visual obstructions. It was bound by historic Dawson Hotel to East and another Pennines sandstone building to West. Adjacent to this building, to its North, stood Hurtshire railway station. A hundred feet long alley was stretched from the station at West along the northern boundaries of the hotel to East. There was another alley between the hotel and the building. The alleys were separated by the hotel building, an erstwhile garden turned ivy infested dirty patch and an elevation of almost six feet to their eastern end. The southern alley descended to the level of Northern alley and was abruptly truncated by the sandstone building. A viaduct ascended westward along the southern alley and went past the building’s southern end.

Two cameras were mounted on the eastern wall of the building, one camera viewing the hotel a hundred feet away, another viewing the northern alley emerging from the railway station, forty feet away. These were single view traffic signal cameras, not with three hundred sixty degrees view, hence, unable to record everything surrounding them.

Huxley noticed different beggars, appearing in shifts, sitting by the northern wall of this building, near the railway station, just out of respective lines of vision of the cameras. The beggars were exchanging tiny paper wraps, like candy wraps without candy, filled with white powder, if paid with bills as small as five squid. Otherwise they were asking meekly, “D’ya have ‘ny change? Change please.”, shaking the paper cup part full of changes.

Mary Huxley, the cop, concluded, “Narcotic peddlers, in disguise of beggars.”

She sat on the crest of the viaduct, beneath the cameras, to watch the effect of the entry of the patrolling Peace Officers on the peddler. The station was out of the visual frame. The peddler’s blanket corner was peeking from North-eastern corner of the building. The hotel was to her right. Around this time, her anxious mother called, “Can’t you quit policing? Pursue forensic technologies, instead. You’re a Chemistry major.”

Mary’s mother hung up knowing the futility of the suggestions with, “Can’t stop worrying…. the whole world’s sworn enmity with the police…”

Patrolling peace officers were appearing every half an hour alternatively from East and West ends of the visual frame. Whenever a uniform appeared at the hotel end, Huxley found that the beggar was missing at the begging post. She also noticed the beggars leaving their post and pretending to walk towards the hotel, minutes before a peace officer appeared from the station.

From her strolls she gathered that the begging peddlers could see police persons approaching from the shopping center lying north-west of the railway station. The visuals enabled them to feign being passersby before the officer. But the hotel end was visually obstructed by the ivies and the elevation.

Huxley realized that there must be a signal for the peddler on arrival of a peace officer at the hotel end. Within the following two hours, she figured out that the vocalist with a guitar busking under an arch of the viaduct was striking a distinct pitch viewing the police officer at the hotel end. It was the signal to the begging peddler.

In her inaugural shift on job, Mary approached along the northern alley to Hurtshire station, remaining invisible to the busking singer by the ivies. She surprised the begging drug peddler at the usual begging post by North-east corner of the building and made her first arrest.

She mentioned in her report the requirement of cameras with three hundred sixty degrees vision above the beggars’ post. Her peers were congratulatory but jealous. Yet she was relieved from pursuing the case further.

Months passed. A veteran among colleagues, Martha Bentley, told Mary, “The beggar you’ve arrested was an undercover.”

Huxley was disappointed that her enthusiasm spoiled the toils of someone else. To make up, she started spending more hours of her own in between Dawson Hotel and Hurtshire Station. She took photos of changing faces of the beggars, of their ringleader in rainbow hairband tied like a rag in false carelessness, in earrings and necklace of rainbow beads, in pink lipstick.

Some more months passed. No new camera was installed. Mary continued creating a dossier with clear identities of every peddler feigning beggar, their ringleaders, and customers with the photographs she took. She shared her findings with her commanding officer Bob Smith. Smith studied Huxley’s work for some time. Then he instructed Mary, “Make the arrest.”

Hence, Mary Huxley appeared at the obvious scene of crime, caught the peddling beggar by surprise, by the camera blind North-eastern corner of the sandstone building. The peddler pulled a gun from his shopping bag. So did Huxley.

Her team was around, was armed and was targeting the peddler and scanning the surroundings for peddler’s aides. Yet, dying Mary saw that her team was fumbling to shoot her killer, the peddler, who disappeared in the crowd. She realized on death the numbing effect of stigma for upholding the law on rigorously trained police reflex. Her last sigh was on just unmasked initiation of destruction of the criminal justice system.

 ********

Word count: 1000 (one thousand, with hyphenated words, without hyphenated words, 996 [nine  hundred ninety six)]

******************************

Looking forward to your critique….

 

 

 

MOTHER and Son @WEP #Grave Mistake

Precursory Note on Draupadi: 

Draupadi was the daughter of king Drupad reigning over Southern Panchal. Southern Panchal was a fictional territory and different from the Vedic Age state of Panchal. Southern Panchal was situated in present day Uttar Pradesh province of India, spanning from the Ganges in the north to the Chambal River in the south, to the Nimsar forests in the east and to Delhi (National Capital Territory), Haryana and Madhya Pradesh provinces to the west.

Arjun, the third Pandav of Hastinapur, (Hastinapur was situated around current Delhi region) won the archery competition at Draupadi's swayambar. Swayambar is an event attended by potential grooms invited by the bride's family and, often, presented with a challenge of wit, wisdom and strength about weapons. In this event the bride used to choose her mate from the invitees. The most preferable choice used to be the winner of the challenge of swayambar. Etymologically, swayambar is made of two roots, swayam meaning self and bar meaning to accept.

Draupadi chose the winner Arjun, though, at that time, Arjun and his two half-brothers, Yudhisthir and Bhim and twin stepbrothers, Nakul and Sahadev were in exile along with his mother Kunti, devoid of throne or territory under their reign, rather surviving on alms of mendicancy. On Kunti's order Draupadi entered into a polyandrous relationship with all five brothers, having Arjun and his half-brothers and stepbrothers for her five husbands together, simultaneously. This instance of polyandry can be interpreted either as liberation or as exploitation.

In a game of royal gambling Yudhisthir lost Draupadi to his cousins, Kauravs, after losing his throne, his earthly possessions, his brothers and himself. Duhshason, the second Kaurav, dragged Draupadi to the royal court by her hair, from her resting chamber. In the court they tried to forcibly take away Darupadi’s clothing, calling her a prostitute for having five husbands instead of one. Lord Krishna, being Draupadi’s friend, saved her honor by wrapping her continuously in clothing. Vyasdev, the poet of the Mahabharat, described that Draupadi’s humiliation was extraordinary since she was menstruating when this event of molestation by Duhshason occurred.

Draupadi kept her hair untied till Bhim tied Draupadi’s hair with his own hands wet in Duhshason’s blood after Bhim avenged Duhshason in the Kurukshetra war.

From: The Mahabharat

-----------

 Mother and Son

Mother was startled, “What!? Is there a dearth of girls in your college?”

He winked, “None’s willing to play Draupadi. They don’t support the event of vastraharan. It’s an epic example of molestation of a woman in hands of in-laws.”

Mother interrupted, “Is that what you think?”

He quipped “Yes.”

Then he further explained, “Yet, unlike the girls in the college, I don’t blame Vyasdev of misogyny. The ancient poet merely depicted his contemporary society. The girls have hung posters about it and has been marching all day protesting the Mahabharat and our play.”

Mother sighed; then, commented, “Overly politicized.”

Further she asked, “When is the play?”

He replied exuberantly, “Next week. Wednesday. That’s the foundation day of college.”

Mother suggested, “I’d like to do your make-up”

He blushed, “Ma! I’m in college now. My friends will laugh at me.”

Mother bargained, “Can I come and watch the play?”

He agreed reluctantly.

Following days his mother kept on showing him all the sarees. She begged him with each Silk and brocade saree, “Look at this. This one will do. I know. What do you say?”

He made faces and said, “Nay.”

On one of these days, after some hour-long exercises with the sarees, he confided, “Ma, your sarees are beautiful. But I don’t need them for the time being. The foundation day play has been sponsored by the college authority. So, we’ve rented wardrobe for all the actors.”

His mother quit the display in disappointment.

The whole weekend he remained busy at the rehearsal. Following Monday was the day of the dress rehearsal. It was his opportunity to make Ma happy. He borrowed a silk saree woven moderately with brocade. Ma became elated. She always wanted to have a daughter. Her husband died when her son was only five-month-old. She never had another child.

In a passion for raising a daughter, she used to dress her son like girls sometimes, till he protested, after attending puberty, during his entire adolescence. She used to be ecstatic thinking of her son meddling with her lipsticks and sarees, though she never had any hint of her son conflicting with the gender of his birth. She was proud of their mutually transparent lives.

She was taken aback by the scene of her son suddenly trying her sarees, probably due to prevailing debates about gender and sexuality. She, for a zillionth of a second, surmised that her son might not be willing to see himself as a male anymore and he might have been learning to become a woman.

After her son spoke about the drama to be held on the college foundation day, her confusions waned away. Moreover, she felt happy that he had been chosen to play Draupadi and she could see him as an adult female in a fully public view.

During the dress rehearsal, the son’s look as a woman reminded the mother of her youth. She loved her son wearing her saree, in make-up borrowed from her. As the scene of vastraharan started, small brick bats started to be flown to the stage. A group of females started shouting from a dark unidentifiable corner of the hall, “Don’t touch her pallu.”

The stage manager appeared to be naturally persuasive. She begged everyone to watch the complete show before opposing it. The protestors paid no heed. In basaltic determination, they invigorated the ruckus. It appeared to the mother that the protestors were beyond reason and, hence, were not capable of relinquishing hitherto planned sequence of their activities.

Worried, Ma ran along the isles to rescue her son. Reaching backstage, she found that a meeting was going on, about the safety and the security of the performance and the performers on the foundation day of the college. It zeroed upon putting requisition for enhanced police presence during the show.

On the foundation day, she could not believe from the appearance of Draupadi that it was her son. The play ended successfully amidst applause and standing ovation for the performers. The son received an award for his portrayal of Draupadi.

The mother returned home and readied her treat for the son. He was about to return after attending the success party.

Yet, the night rolled gradually towards getting very late.

A phone call around midnight from a police station informed Ma that her son was hospitalized. At the hospital mother found that her son was raped reportedly by a group of vigilantes about protecting the sacredness of the epic. All Ma found that her son was bleeding, enduring pain.

The son murmured in his final breath to his Ma, “The girls from the college avenged my audacity of being instrumental for enacting the epic molestation. They punished me for I, being a straight male, dared exhibiting a woman’s humiliation. Ma, all I tried was to live through Draupadi’s agony, to honor a woman’s resilience overcoming atrocities. I tried to celebrate spirit of Draupadi.”

-----------------------

Word count:  820 (eight hundred twenty) words [including hyphenated words, else 826 (eight hundred twenty-six) words]

FCA

-------------------------

This is from my book "Ghost Runners & Others"

-----------------

Halloween Plus

After reading Renée's post at WEP on October 1, 2020, I was inspired to compose following mini saga constituting only fifty (50) words.

After-ghostdom

Ghostverse became congested. Ghostpedia reported the reason being a virus.

Anxious about its remnant family, Bhootiya searched Ghostverse neighborhoods. Its attempt to communicate with the Universe failed due to frequency and wavelength mismatch. 

By this endeavor Bhootiya broke Ghostcode. It was ousted from Ghostverse and remained hung permanently at Nonverse.

---------------------------

*****Durga Puja Bonus

(Another One hundred twenty-two [122] words)

Standing Alone Standing up

It would have been easier

If I could stride

Along the tide

Of pandemonium of the hour

Hatred inside clenched fists

Voice syncing loud

With the vibes of the crowd

Marching along the streets

Yet I dare speak my mind

Though unheard 

Mauled by the herd

Seeking revenge, unkind,

Unjust, parochial as congregation 

Driven by a notional fad

Craving for a pie scrap

Moving in a suicidal motion

Under a spell, in a trance

Of kinsmanship 

In brinkmanship 

In pursuit of harvesting chance.

Still I chose to stand alone, aside 

Abiding by adversity

Withstanding atrocity 

Refuting refuge in amassed cowardice.

You can call it my grave mistake

Yet I chose to fight

The current's aggregate might

Even putting my existence at stake.

*****Durga Puja is the autumn festival of West Bengal coinciding with Navratri festival of North India. Durga slayed Mahisasur and, hence, became a symbol of power and strength. Mahisasur was an ambitious asur, son of Rambha, an Asur king, from a buffalo. Mahisasur was tired and disgusted of being beaten by the Gods of heaven. He went through penance for Lord Brahma's blessings. Lord Brahma awarded Mahisasur that Mahisasur would never be defeated by any man or God. Empowered with Lord Brahma's boon, Mahisasur put humanity to his Asur clan's servitude and then he ransacked the heaven, dethorned Indra, king of the Gods and the heaven, ousted all Gods from the heaven to exile. Autocratic anarchy of Mahisasur made humans seek help from Gods who were rendered helpless themselves. Then, on Lord Brahma's counsel, Gods empowered Parvati, a woman, wife of Lord Shiv and the mother of Lord Shiv's four children, with their weapons and other objects. In a nine nightlong battle, Durga slayed Mahisasur and restored rule of law on the earth and the heaven. 

Originally, Durga used to be worshiped during the spring. Seeking Durga's blessing, Sree Ramchandra of the epic Ramayan, worshiped Durga during autumn, before going to battle with Ravan. Since then Durga worship has been celebrated with grandeur during the autumn, instead of spring.

Blurbs @ WEP Challenge #Long Shadow

 

Long Shadow (Flash Fiction) by Olga Godim : Paper mage Monette was called by Jane, John’s wife. The morning after John’s birthday party Jane’s house was filled up by worms. Monette cast her spell and rescued the house, Jane and John.

Thoughts on a Dying Evening (Poetry) by Denis Covey : A view of long shadow under setting sun unfolded like an impressionist painting. The urge for light and futile head smashing on shadow of continuing pandemic rolled like tear drops along the cheek. Sad and satisfying.

SHADOWS (Poetry) by Yolanda Renée : Hate is a shadow of love, when words of beloved ones wraps in companionship of piercing pain, pushes to lonely helplessness and eviscerate ones soulfulness of life leaving a shadow of liveliness.

Breath and Shadow (Non-fiction) by Nilanjana Bose : Light, shades and shadows trick mind, the visual sense. Humans, all along history, captured this visual sense in art. Oriental and occidental art captured lights and shadow in different extent. Western art used shadows more intensely. Vincent Van Gogh’s paintings moved from shadows to bright colors while the artist’s mind followed a reverse direction.

Monster (Flash Fiction) by L G Keltner : Laura the seven year old was playing with her shadow while the sun was setting, casting long shadows on tiny objects. Yet a return journey to one’s home help to turn back on one’s own monstrous long shadow.

Kirtinagar – the City of Deeds (Flash Fiction) by Sanhita Mukherjee : Ruh has a secret. She is in conflict with her mother and ancestors. Yet she carries on with the family under the long shadow of her secret.

 TheLynching (Flash Fiction) by C. Lee McKenzie : Bart was a protective father. He sought revenge on violator of her daughter Nell. Yet, he chose to forget the evening when he was out for head hunting.

Me and My Shadow (Poetry) by Elephant’s Child : A shadow always moves ahead, lighter, freer, and eluding the person whom it belong.

CAST A LONG SHADOW (Flash Fiction) by Kalpana : A wrestler Hindu priest of Ayodhya dreamt of Shri Ram narrating about his birthplace. The pious priest fancied a temple at the very birthplace of Shri Ram. He appealed to the District Magistrate. But the District Magistrate declined the priest’s proposal to prevent riots. The priest came up with a plan for manipulating tolerance of liberal egalitarian society.

The Banker (Poetry) by Susan Rouchard : A moonlit night. Benches, streets and other objects under long shadow. A man in long coat, a whore, a cat and Mr. Hacklebaum. The death waited and watched for the right opportunity.

Long Shadow (Flash Fiction) by Jemima Pett : Bobby spent his lockdown sunny days digging sand pit in garden, or climbing trees. His sister annoyed him in countless tormenting ways. Yet her mother asked him to be more involved with his sister. Also, long shadows spoke to him about sad scary dangerous matters of life unfolding truth about how his father died.

Long Shadow (Flash Fiction) by Sally : Fred was a fireman living alone at his workplace endangering his life every now and then, amidst great physical discomfort of heat, cold, lack of running water, proper bed. His great-great grandson Ryan is a fireman, too. But his work is much easier, and his world is much more comfortable.

The Long Shadow (Flash Fiction) by Pat Garcia : Jamie was ready for presenting a strategic plan in the field of space aeronautics. Yet she noticed a long shadow beside her own. The shadow belonged to a man and Jamie did not find him creepy. At the end of the day, the mystery of the man and his shadow were unraveled.

Blades of Grass (Flash Fiction) by Jemi Fraser : Toya missed her Granny. She tried to make duck calls by blades of grasses. She failed. The heap of rolled blades was full of her memories with Granny. She carefully picked them all and moved on.

Choices (Flash Fiction) by Dixie J. Jarchow : A witch her cat and a young girl. The girl wanted the witch to kill someone. Instead, the witch made some transformations and solved the girl’s problem. Yet the witch did not overwhelm the girl with mastery of witchcraft and made the girl feel responsible for her decisions.

Long Shadow (Non-fiction) by Rebecca Douglass : Life and loss of life cast long shadows on everyone related to a life. Often those shadows seem to be outcomes of decisions. Yet, life, in general, goes on under two different kinds of long shadows, of life, of loss of life.

The Deserted Railway Station (Flash Fiction) by Bernadette Braganza : A railway station without spec of any creature under setting sun. A man arrived there and dropped a heavy bag. Then he started digging. Suddenly a shadow appeared by him. Presently, there rests relic of what happened then.

A Royal Request (Flash Fiction) by Christopher Scott : Five years after the previous episode took place, the protagonist returned to England. Wary of world travel, intending to settle in the native land, yet eluding the gallows and enjoying life, his return was a response to the Royal Request. This time he acted to destroy monsters along with their progeny.

On with the show! (Continuation of The Yadira Chronicle) by Naught Netherworld Press : King Qweh was being criticized by Yadira. From interdimensional spaces, some people were eavesdropping. Qweh’s sycophants were held hostage by Nyarlathotep, Yadira’s father. These people were particularly curious about the royal opinion on Gerry.

LONG SHADOW (Flash Fiction) by Sonia Dogra : In Rumsu, a village in Himachal, on verdant valleys surrounded by mighty mountains of the Himalayas, lived a mother deserted by her children. Her children left her like feather shed by jujurana (Western Tragopan). The father of the children wished to make money from the feathers. Mother tried to return it to the bird so that her children would return to her.

Untitled (Continuation of Lisa and Pierce’s Story) by D M Hanton : Lisa met Pierce by the wall on the street. They were transported to the hospital. Then the girl who called the police on Pierce appeared and things went weirder.

Untitled (Non-fiction) by Jamie of Uniquely maladjusted but fun : Statistics about relationship between abortion and crime. That too, in specific types of crime. Mention of Levitt and Dubner’s one and half -decade old earth-shaking book Freakonomics and argument about whether there should be options of abortion and birth control. There are reminiscences of a visit to Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania.

A Growing Flame (Poetry) by Toinette Thomas : A moan from under shadows of Monsters. A groan against proud oppressors. A promise of revolution brewing by the corner. Sound of footsteps of gathering mass.

Untiltled (Poetry) by Karen Sather : Sunshine and shadows goes hand in glove. One can attempt an escape form one’s own shadow and realize the futility of the endeavor and clings to the shadow.

With You I Could Steal Horses (Flash Fiction) by Carol Stolz : An epistolary fiction about sharing lives with loved ones and keeping secret guarded from them. The long shadow of secret and keeping something that way from loved ones affects relationships. Yet sharing such secrets can shatter shared love and lives, too. It is about maintaining the delicate balance.

Custody Chain CHAPTER FOUR – UMBRAGE by Roland Clarke : Urien went back to home from hospital. Tesni was there with him. Sparkle and Kama along with their uniformed colleagues stayed on vigil for the intruder to return. They already knew that the intruder masked the surveillance system. However, they succeeded in catching the intruder. Urein’s secrets were partially unearthed.

Kirtinagar – The City of Deeds @ WEP Entry # Long Shadow

When Ernest Hemingway used "Thou" and "You" in "For Whom the Bell Tolls" to imply respectively "Su", formal and "Tu", casual second person salutations in Spanish, he earned severe negative criticism for using and mixing an obsolete (English) form with modern forms. Hemingway was native English speaker. I am not. Educational and Testing Service (ETS) have recognized my writing prowess, though [ My seven year old ToEFL score card, photo of which is shared herewith, is the testimony.] After all, grammar is, from linguists' view point, codified usage of language by people belonging to defined geographies. 

Language is my tool for storytelling. In order to bring the feel to the reader I play grammar (don't search for "with the"; [Neither I am a child nor the grammar is a toy] I 'play' grammar like playing people, politics, race card, linguistic group sentiments, sexual orientations, genders and victimhood.), fiddle punctuation, doctor spelling to elucidate pronunciation, engineer words to carve impressions. For uncrossed t-s and undotted i-es or preposterous prepositions and awry articles inattentive proofreading is to blame. Storytelling is my passion, proofreading - nay.

----------------

Kirtinagar – The City of Deeds

Ruh was watching Prajuktipur’s shadow on completely deserted, gradually waning Kirtinagar, sprawling over thousand hectares, through Eastern panes of her sixtieth-floor office.

Ruh’s mother Seema commented from behind, “Gloating?”

Ruh replied reluctantly, “Measuring, scheming…. the endeavor, the expenditure required to remove Rathin Gupto’s mess on the marsh.”

Frowning Seema snapped, “Do you care about my baba’s blood, sweat, money dissolved in the marsh, keeping Kirtinagar intact?”

Ruh bantered, “In control.”

She added then, "I’ve checked the land records. Guptos used to own the marsh. Then the government put limit on individual landholding. Rathin’s father lost the marsh.”

Seema screamed, “Rathin? Not dadan? Disrespecting your grandfather!”

Ruh laughed out loud, “Clever dadan! If I call you Seema, I’ll end up with Ma….”

Seema reminded Ruh, “This Pajuktipur office, trendy outfits, cars, your snuffs, gadgets – my shrewd baba earned all. The control you’re contorting about… he bought that, bribing politicians… freed the marsh from squatters, from their shacks made of rags and cane on raised bamboo platforms, by buying their non-salable ownership, bestowed to them by the government, for their rehabilitations...”

Ruh interrupted, “Dadan harvested return on investment. The Democratic Government, run by politicians on his payroll, paid him for filling up the marsh and building Kirtinagar thereof.”

She asserted then, “Dadan knew… every construction at Kirtinagar was destined to be corroded by moisture, creeping up through pores of landfill, by water clogging…”

Seema justified, “Drag of developing Kirtinagar inflicted baba with hypertension, culminated into cerebral thrombosis.”

Ruh slandered, “Then his dutiful daughter left fashionable student politics and joined nasty family business.”

Seema reminisced, “I’s twenty-one then. It was fun being tagalong to Mrinal, charismatic campus leader of violent student politics…”

Ruh taunted, “Tagalong? You’re lovers. Though Deepak’s your fiancé then.”

Seema scowled, “Deepak? You used to call him baba….”

Ruh sneered, “Yay, the looser tried hard to be my father.”

Seema recalled, “I approached Kirtinagar residents for converting their damp, friable small family homes to high rises. Then Prajuktipur had just began to grow, unable to accommodate all its workers belonging to several echelons of pay. High demand for low cost housing in vicinity was just about to pop.”

She continued, “Resources were scant then. Baba’s unable to walk, talk or eat. Most residents of Kirtinagar willingly converted their property, accepting compensations, in cash or flats or a combination of both. Deepak’s the lender. The wealthier Kirtinagar denizens were resistant. Mrinal’s ingenious maneuvers….”

Ruh slandered, “Ingenious maneuvers? You’re glorifying how Mrinal burned a few of them alive.”

 She went on, “Your ever-delayed repayments made Deepak look into your books. Thus, he realized how Mrinal was sucking your business, how return on investment was just break even, though sales figures were humongous continuously for ten years.”

 Seema mentioned scornfully, digressing intentionally, “On your fifth birthday, Deepak wished for another child, to help you with the business.”

Ruh laughed and replied, “You spilled the beans…..”

Seema, too, laughed and added, “The look on his face…. I still remember. He took quite a while to assimilate, then surmised, ‘Oh! It’s always Mrinal.’ I abruptly rectified though, ‘Ruh’s from Ashis, the interior decorator, hired for our Prajuktipur office.”

Ruh inferred, “Thus Deepak lived lost, till he succumbed to the road rage”.

Then, she returned to Seema’s initial question, “Not gloating, though nobody’s out there with the leverage of knowing my criminal secret…... of stealing a fatal microbial strain from the college lab, then mixing it to Kirtinagar’s water supply lines, all by myself, leaving no loose end, hence, no risk of being blackmailed, unlike your messy arrangements involving Mrinal.”

Few months ago, Seema alerted Ruh, “Business’ about to collapse, unless we match our stride to catch up with current booming trend in Prajuktipur. High rise buildings comprising dingy apartments, stingy shops, congesting Kirtinagar, like litter, must give way to planned development of spacious well-lit condos, town houses, bungalows, shopping plazas with huge parking spaces, wide drivable roads, greenery, underground sewerage and drainage…. I can’t compensate all the residents of Kirtinagar. Thirty thousand people lives in its each square kilometer, over three hundred thousand people in total, incurring a hundred billion rupees in compensation.”

Ruh sarcastically added then, “Ask Mrinal to drop a bomb on Kirtinagar, though he’ll bleed the business white for the job, wrenching you for never marrying him.”

A week after this conversation, in wee hours of a weekday, Ruh went live on social media, sharing her stray dog feeding endeavor amidst the crew of Kirtinagar Municipality, at one of Kirtinagar’s water supply maintenance sites. Instantly, she earned compassion of the crew. Keeping the crew busy in front and rear of her camera, Ruh, stealthily, added the microbe colony to the city water supply. In a few weeks, some unknown infection wiped out population of three blocks of Kirtinagar.

Ruh’s video of dog feeding went viral. Banking upon hugely compassionate public mood, she buzzed continuously against nexus of corrupt politicos and construction farms, holding them responsible for fatal infection at Kirtinagar.

In tandem, the mainstream media sensation machinery narrative held Ruh a hero, a scion revolting against her own people. Also, their reportage terrorized Kirtinagar residents of imminent death. Within weeks, Kirtinagar dwellers vacated the city, voluntarily.

Ruh’s explanation about her modus operandi silenced Seema. Ruh asserted the forward plan, “You must soon announce my engagement to Prama.”

Seema reacted, “The cement baron Dutta’s daughter!”

Ruh ignored, “It must be ostentatious. It’ll bring you to the fold of sympathizers of marginalized persons. It’ll steer clear all bad press about redevelopment of Kirtinagar”

Seema fumbled, “Even last night your orgasmic moans were from Soham! What’s about him?”

Ruh snapped, “I’ll keep him in the closet. Until open relationship for bisexuals or promiscuity in general becomes fashionably adorable, or sexual straightness starts to be ostracized….”

She digressed abruptly though, “Wanna get rid of Mrinal?”

After three months, Mrinal succumbed to heart attack, without prior heart complaint. Ruh posted a photo of Mrinal on social media explaining how he inspired Ruh. 

----------------

WORD COUNT:  995 (nine hundred ninety five) [Including all hyphenated words, else one thousand (1000)] 

FCA – FULL CRITIQUE ACCEPTABLE

React directly.

Speak your mind freely.

August is our, the Indians', month of freedom. 15th is the Independence Day. Let's celebrate.

-----------------

Blurbs of the Entries to #WEP June 2020 Challenge: Urban Nightmare

---------------------------

Out of Mind

Nothing else but The Story

--------------------------------------

--------------- --------------- ---------------

A car is honking in the neighborhood. Mouli feels as if she has just woken up.

She thinks of shutting the window. But cannot. The glass pane has been imploded by raging Aamphan. Since then her bed, bedroom floor has been spread with glass shards; flooded with storm water gushing through the hollow of aluminum window frame. Flood water surged through kitchen and dining area to living room and apartment entrance.

Startled by the sound of shattering windowpane, in the early evening, Mouli left her home office, in between living room and kitchen area, in awe. Reaching bedroom, she has obtained deep cuts on planters of her feet.

By this time, the storm water has engulfed the home power back up system by the apartment entrance; made it defunct, in exchange became electrified. It shocked Mouli’s submerged feet; made her climb on the bed; squirm at a corner away from hollow of the window.

Darkness, dampness, dull inactive passage of fathomless time accompanied by crazily forceful tropical cyclone continuing over six hours at a crushing hourly speed of two hundred kilometers seized Mouli’s consciousness, sealed her eyes.    

Earlier in the day, the client has sent page to Mouli’s team. It was Kushal’s shift; hence, he was responsible for acknowledging receipt of the page within an hour of receiving it. Mouli waited for half an hour for Kushal’s response, then she called him.  After several calls over an hour, he picked up and asked, “Have you responded to the page?”.

Mouli reminded him, “Since I’m your manager… I must, hence, I saved the deadline. Now start fixing the bug. It’s in client’s B2B transaction module.”  

Hanging up she sighed, “Quite unprofessional!”

Kushal gave up after two hours of effort or its pretention, around standard siesta time.

Then, Mouli had left with no choice but herself fixing the code timely to secure earning few thousand dollars for her employer and enhancing business relationship with the client. Otherwise, her employer would lose the business, incurring millions of dollars in penalty for damages caused to client’s business by incompetence of Mouli’s team, abiding by the agreement.

Hence, Mouli scanned through lines of the code, found the block of method that had been manipulated by client’s latest requirement; checked the methods linked to the changed method; figured out how to tweak them as necessary by logic. Yet she could not fix the code.

Power supply of entire city was turned off since the landfall of the cyclone, late in afternoon. Mouli’s power back up system kept her laptop and internet router alive for few hours, till her bedroom window broke. Then, she received text messages from her internet service provider intimating breakdown in internet and cell phone services. She surmised that all the electric poles and posts, connecting optic fiber cables carrying internet signals, were probably uprooted.

Without electricity, broadband, mobile data, communication became impossible, even with respective service agencies. Nor Mouli could resume resolving the business problem in hand. She helplessly observed tampering of her hitherto impeccable reputation of punctuality. Imagining the consequences of missing delivery to her employer, ensuing cascading effect on her career, then on her life, life seemed to be decimated.

Life had already been at its knees due to lockdown. Mouli had spent no weekend with her parents, siblings, or friends, at her place, or at their respective places, or someplace away from the city, for months, maintaining social distancing. Constant view of ugly erratic hardscape of maximizing profit per square feet, without considering comforts and convenience of dwellers and durability of structure constructed, strained her neurons, fatigued her muscles. Even glass-iron-concrete box, called office, appeared a soothing isolation from noise in surroundings and thoughts.

Probably, the shed of neighborhood car parking was blown off. The crown of Mahogany tree standing by the parking has been fallen on the cars. Consequently, cars started honking as alarm.

Nobody dared going outside to stop the alarms.

The honking has shaken Mouli to senses, probably. She feels like being drowned in her own perspiration, smelling like vinegar. Her hands are immovable, like being in a straitjacket, of a flex banner printed with, “Honking won’t widen the street.”

After Mouli shouted it, once, a lady left her car, rushed to Mouli to respond with slur. The street was inundated by water from roadside drain, failed to hold rainwater from previous nights, fortnights, yielding invisible potholes. The lady stepped into one of them, fell and was drowned. Without underground sewerage canals, as wide and high as two-lane street, overflowing drains, consequent road corrosion creating potholes and loss of lives remain inevitable.

Nobody sued the authorities, provider of roads, though dilapidated, yet social benefits, for citizens, hence, like royal, feudal endowment, beyond reproach.

She has thought of renting ad spaces to flash her anti-honking slogan; yet abandoned the idea. Electronic billboards are few.

Someone copied her slogan, made a cheap campaign with flex banner, fitted over iron frames or wooden batons, which has just been torn by storm wind, gushing at hundred and twenty something miles per hour, dropped in front of a moving truck and covered its windscreen.

The truck failed to sense total loss of visibility as visibility was almost nil over quarter of a day, drenched in Amphan rain. It stumbled upon iron traffic barriers lying flat on the street, slammed earlier, from their upright positions, to the street floor by storm wind, due to lack of weight of sand sacks on their respective bottoms.

The truck lost control; rammed into Mouli’s apartment building. The impact made the banner fly from the trucks’ windscreen, enter Mouli’s bedroom through the broken window and whirled around Mouli.

As Mouli struggles to free herself from the wrap, a piece of left-over wooden baton, protruding from the flex banner’s edge, pierces her left eye. Rolling in pain, she crosses the edge of the window of her seventeenth-floor apartment.

Subsequent thud on the ground remains unheard. Rain washes away splashed flesh, blood, warmth.

--------------------------------------

I finished writing before Aamphan. After Aamphan I changed it, keeping the ending intact. After demise of actor Sushant Singh Rajput, I changed the ending further so that it would not appear to be mimic of the tragedy. 

--------------------------------------

WORD COUNT: 1000 (One thousand) [Including all hyphenated words, else 997 (Nine hundred ninety seven)] 

FCA – FULL CRITIQUE ACCEPTABLE
Expecting honest and blatant views.